


Dearest Doll

by Welsper



Category: Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist
Genre: Bloodplay, Crossdressing, Dollification, Incest, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-10 02:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20520230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsper/pseuds/Welsper
Summary: Sytry is welcomed back in hell.





	Dearest Doll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piinutbutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piinutbutter/gifts).

“It is the Viscount, the 12th Pillar, Sytry! You are as radiant ever, your Highness.”

“Ah, to be Baalberith… is he not lucky, to have such a_ doll _at this side?”

As always, Sytry bore the snide remarks with grit teeth as he returned to his uncle’s manor from the human world. His shiny heels clacked on the marble floor as he made his way through the endless corridors. The doors to his uncle’s bedrooms were thrown open and there he was, a grin on his scarred face as he looked Sytry up and down. Once he had been unable to, fear and contempt too easily readable in his face as his uncle used him in ways Sytry couldn’t understand, but now his face was a mask.

It would not be for long it never was when Baalberith decided to take what was his, but at least Sytry would not give in right away. He had that much pride, at least.

“How I missed you, my precious doll. Come, give your uncle a kiss,” Baalberith said and for a moment, Sytry was frozen in place. If only he was more powerful… His legs made their way over to the bed, where haphazardly blankets and furs were thrown, crumpled and bunched up by Baalberith’s lounging.

“Ah... you are beautiful today, as always, my precious puppet.”

Sytry starled forward as Baalberith grabbed him by the arm, so hard it bruised and pulled him forward. Harsh lips pressed against him and a slick tongue forced its way past his lips. Baalberith took this part of him too, like he took as all of them and Sytry whimpered into the kiss as he was pulled onto the bed. He was thrown on his back and stared up wide-eyed at the demon king above him.

“How does it go with the elector? Has he made his decision yet? Have you made him choose you?”

Sytry pressed his lips together and shook his head. At this rate, William never might. If only he understood what was at stake… It wasn’t as if he did not understand the need for governance and power, he strove for it himself. Why wouldn’t he just pick?

Baalberith spat at that.

“You, who are my most precious doll… why do I ever let you leave at all? I should keep you here, in my bed. That is the only way you are useful,” Baalberith sneered.

He snapped his fingers and two servants appeared, carrying between them a shimmering white gown with several layers of ruffles, studded with glittering jewels. There were feathers on its back, carefully arranged to look like wings. Baalberith looked at him with the strangest look on his face and Sytry wondered if that was his kind of sick humour.

Sytry reached out for it, to put it on, and Baalberith slapped his hands.

“Dolls are made to be dressed. Be still, puppet,” he said and Sytry obeyed, because that is what he did. He kept himself from moving, watched as Baalberith slowly undressed him, pulling his shirt over his head and wriggling him out of his trousers. He placed kisses here and there, hot, rough lips against his pale skin.

Sytry was lifted off the bed by a hand on the small of his back as Baalberith put the gown on him. The fabric was cool against his skin. It flowed off him like water, crinkling softly with the slightest movement. The wings were heavy on his back. They made him feel strange, like they were occupying a place they should not.

Baalberith licked his lips as he watched his work with hungry eyes and opened his trousers. His thick cock was already hard and heavy between his legs and Sytry had to swallow.

“Uncle, please, no,” Sytry begged, but there was no way to throw off those hands, those touches, the ones that burned his white skin so.

“What right do you have to an opinion? You are only a doll, my doll,” Baalberith said with a grin and placed a kiss on Sytry’s temple. It was gentle and Sytry hated himself for craving that kind of touch, for falling for this affection he knew he didn’t want, not from him, not like this.

“If you don’t want this, I will make you,”

Baalberith had not slept in so long, longer than was right and Sytry didn’t know why he would risk that. He wasn’t like Dantalion, who only had one household member, one that hadn’t slept either, or Camio. Baalberith surrounded himself with many demons he had shared his soul with, even Sytry, whom he proclaimed candidate for the Substitute King. It wasn’t as if Sytry could kill him over there, in limbo – and Baalberith had never suspected Sytry tried to kill him at all. His lands and titles would be safe, defended by his retainers, would have been long ago.

Yet he stayed awake.

Hopefully, once he did go to sleep that meant he would fade away to dust, to never return… But no matter how many sleepless centuries, Sytry was no match for him. Strong, repulsive hands closed around his wrists as his uncle forced himself between Sytry’s legs.

The sounds of ripped fabric tore through the room as Baalberith uncovered him with a sickening glee in those half-lidded eyes that only ever held contempt for him. The beautiful gown was torn apart by rough, clawed hands. Feathers flew, covering them, the bed and the floor. Nails dug into Sytry’s skin and Sytry felt warm trickles of blood smearing his thighs. He shuddered as Baalberith licked them off.

“I wonder if she ever regretted it,” Sytry heard his uncle mutter and for a moment, he saw something in front of him, cold eyes and the flutter of wings, staring down on him as he fell, and fell… “But that’s too late now, is it? You are mine now, doll,” and then the memory was gone, seared out of his mind with a bright, hot pain and all that remained were those hands on him. And Sytry wished he could forget that too, but how could he ever? This was all he was good for, all he was born for, to be a plaything for his uncle, to be used as his pawn in the race for the throne.

To be used like this.

Sytry’s breath stuttered in his throat as Baalberith forced his cock inside of him. It was thick, painful as it tore him open and Sytry hated himself for responding to it like he did now. He whimpered as he clenched down it and Baalberith cursed.

“My pretty doll… sing for me,” Baalberith whispered into his ear and Sytry shuddered as he felt him push deeper. His body struggled to take him and all his demonic force. Sytry pressed his lips together to not give him that satisfaction, but Baalberith forced his fingers between his lips, forced them open and Sytry could not hide his cries. Baalberith used him harshly, his cock rubbing over his prostate with every forceful thrust until Sytry was screaming, so loud that he entire palace must be hearing him. He was sobbing when he came with his uncle’s cock spearing him through and through. Sytry grew tight in his orgasm and revulsion overcame him as that made Baalberith spill inside him with a grunt.

Maybe if William chose him, maybe if he could be the substitute king, this would end… Sytry would become more powerful, and those hands would never reach him again… But it was a hopeless dream, for dreams died in hell, never had a chance to bear fruit.

As he laid there, dirty and broken and used, with one of Baalberith’s arms draped over him, Sytry thought of the school, and his friends, where he would eat sweets with them and pester William about his vote and tears stung in his eyes.

To think of such happiness, how cruel of his mind, how wrong.

A puppet like him had no right to any wishes or desires. All he could do was serve Baalberith.


End file.
